When I was a child, I experienced my first orgasm (I was not alone there, but was with a phantom of you), in the family spa. The spa with a red casing that covered the spa light, making the night red. There, I convexed my legs above me, around the lip of the top of the spa, and submerged my head and body underwater, using my legs as the power to hold me down. I pinched my nose closed with my quavering hands, my genitals pressed firmly against the constancy of the beating jets. This feeling always made me thrash. I would clamp myself under by force until I came. Crimp-like. I never rose for air until I had peaked. After piquant climax, I let myself augment, gently upward for air. The air was so much more richness above me than was there before I had gone under. Ampleness of aroma, texture and temperature, now! In those moments of rich air, post come, I remember envisaging my finding you as liquid-inverse to come in as my future, and take me.

It is true that all bindery scenes smell like pine to me. Gaudy glandular rushes. Luxuriant defecations lucubrating the cells’ previous by way of compression. I know that all of this is why when I read about xems ritual of cutting off the kimono in the night air, I felt like someone else’s muscles were in my legs. Tempting me with more strength from within my own strength.
To be obliged into presence during relatively harsh shifts enforces endocrine ecstasies.

Perhaps the only next was to rest and record beauty.

________________________________________________________j/j hastain is the author of several cross-genre books including the trans-genre book libertine monk (Scrambler Press), anti-memoir a vigorous (Black Coffee Press/ Eight Ball Press) and The Xyr Trilogy: a Metaphysical Romance. j/j’s writing has most recently appeared in Caketrain, Trickhouse, The Collagist, Housefire, Bombay Gin and Aufgabe. j/j has been a guest lecturer at Naropa University and University of Colorado.